Page 89 of Kneeling to Candy

Stumbling around in a circle to face him, my nostrils flare of their own accord.

Triple points at my face. “Lesson three: never show your anger toward your enemy. They’ll see you’re not focused and use it against you.”

Shit. He’s right. And I should know better than to let my feelings get the better of me. Hiding emotions is a lesson I’ve used myself while surviving in the brothel. It’s what kept me from suffering greater pain and humiliation at the hands of madmen. I’ll be damned if I fail this lesson.

I quickly school my features into what I hope is a look of indifference.

Not meaning to, I catch a glimpse of Butch behind Triple’s shoulder. My biker keeps his eyes downcast. His jawline is taut, like he’s grinding his molars, and his lips are in a thin line. It doesn’t take a genius to guess he’s pissed. Who wouldn’t be upset watching their woman get thrown around a wrestling mat like a rag-doll?

This has to be difficult for my biker, but thank God he has enough sense not to intervene. If the worst-case scenario happens and I have to defend myself, I can’t be expecting Butch to be there to save the day. I need to handle the situation on my own for as long as I can until help arrives.

He’s doing his part. Now I need to do mine.

Straightening my back, I keep my expression neutral and spread my feet shoulder-width apart, waiting for Triple to give further instructions.

My trainer nods, approving. “Now that you’re focused on the threat, the real training begins.”

The next two hours are brutal—necessary—but awful all the same. Triple put me in every chokehold and vulnerable position known to man. It’s a lot to handle on short notice, and more than once I had to check my attitude. The only consolation was, no one else noticed my internal rage, or if they did, they never mentioned it.

The other guys take turns being the test dummies for me to fight against, throwing in suggestions to help me as it pertains to the lessons.

Triple is an excellent instructor, but he’s relentless. Refusing to move on to other defensive positions until I’ve mastered the current one. I don’t argue with his direction, knowing I’m under a tight deadline and can’t afford to throw an attitude.

This latest position is the worst yet. I’m in the middle of trying to get out of Triple’s bear hug from behind. No matter what I do, I can’t seem to grasp his instructions. I even stood aside and watched Atlas and Gauge demonstrate how it’s supposed to look. Though I understand what I’m supposed to do, putting it into action is not registering while being squeezed slowly into conceding.

I’m about to tap out when I hear the voice I love most hollering at me.

“Remember Triple’s earlier instructions—lesson twelve: Don’t panic. Keep your attention focused on your training to keep your head in the game,” Butch shouts.

I struggle another minute, trying and failing to put the movements together to break out of Triple’s ironclad arms.

“Candy, look at me.”

My eyes snap to Butch across the mats in front of me.

“Stop thinking you’re fighting Triple, or any of the rest of us. That’s not a brother on your back—it’s the enemy. It’s someone who’s hurt you or wants to harm you. Do not give them the chance. You can do this,” he encourages me, helping me think clearly.

My biker’s words hit home. I’m not fighting someone I care about. I’m fighting the villain. It’s time to step outside my comfortable bubble and put my limited training to good use.

Digging deep inside of me, I push aside my frustration and concentrate. I close my eyes, breathing deeply through my nose, letting a newfound calmness wash over me.

With more grace and agility than I was aware I had, I take hold of Triple’s forearms wrapped across my arms and sternum, drop my weight, and stomp with all my might on his left foot. I pivot on my right foot to the side, giving my arm enough room to swing back and hit Triple in the groin with my fist. He releases me, sucking wind and cupping his junk in both hands.

While he’s distracted, I use my left foot and kick out high, contacting Triple’s chest. He stumbles back, landing with an oomph on his ass.

The crew claps and whistles, indicating I mastered the lesson.

Triple stands to give me a high-five, still holding his dick in one hand. “The chest kick was a nice touch.”

Reaper thumbs his chest, all excited. “Oh! That was my suggestion. I taught her that.”

“Yeah, but this is the first time she implemented it—and without guidance,” Triple says to the brutish giant before looking back at me. “Well done, Candy. You have a good head start. We’ll end here for the night and resume again tomorrow.”

The guys clear out of the gym, leaving me and Butch alone.

With the others gone, my biker stalks toward me, his arms crossed over his chest. He looks predatory, almost feline with how he eyes me like I’m a mouse he wants to eat up. But I know better. He may be the cat at the moment, but behind closed doors, he lets me be the lioness.

Knowing I’m the one who calls the shots in the bedroom makes my insides swirl below my waist. And Butch letting me take control of the situation makes me want to rub myself all over him, mark him with my scent and fingernail scratches.

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